Can you afford to make that choice? (Not another college experience anecdote!)

http://www.nytimes.com/pages/national/class/

Where do you stand?

Sometimes, we are not free to choose, because choice does not come free.

I am the first in my family to be a second generation immigrant.

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My mothers' side of the family immigrated from a village in the Zhoushan prefecture to New York City in 1979. My grandfather worked in a Chinese restaurant, and my grandmother labored as a seamstress in a garment factory. They both worked long hours for low wages to provide for their three children. Unable to speak English and with a limited academic background, they had few options.

At the age of fifteen, my mother learned English for the first time while attending a public high school (with no ESL program, no translator), and had to be a mother to her siblings. She had no choice but to support her family in the ways that she could.

My mother chose to attend college, and she did it against my grandmother's will. My grandmother wanted my mother to join her in the factory so that she could contribute financially to their family; however, my mother believed that investing in education would provide better life opportunities, particularly, making socio-economic advancements. To pay for college, she had no choice but to work two full time jobs while being a full time student. That choice resulted in her pursuing her masters to be a guidance counselor (once again, through her own . After working for more than twenty years as one, carefully saving, and making investments, she now makes enough for her to be fit the part of the "upper-middle class."

When it was time for me to apply for college, I constantly thought of how fortunate I was to have my mother's undivided support for me to go to college and pursue my interests. I received a strong public school education and was had been raised in an environment where learning was encouraged and I did not have to worry about living necessities, of whether we would be able to pay the rent or have food on the table, worries that my mother had when growing up. Yet, when it came to looking at the cost of attending private liberal arts colleges like Hamilton, I was appalled by the costs. My mother ensured me that we could afford a college education, but she couldn't say the same for one that costed over half of what she made. But she still encouraged me to apply to whichever schools I liked and that we would work details out later. But in applying, the fees quickly accumulated. Visiting colleges costed money. Applying costed money. Sending in test scores costed money. Whereas some of my friends who could apply for waivers maximized their opportunities (perhaps, one of the only times being poorer was better) by retaking the standardized tests as often as needed and sending their applications to as many schools as they wanted, I felt increasingly confined every time I had to ask my mother for her credit card or for a check.

But what stunned me was that my mother's efforts in having a well-paying job only resulted in me being unable to apply for many scholarships. As if this weren't insulting enough, I then realized that I wasn't applicable to other scholarships that required grades to be lower, not higher, than a B. Now, my efforts to have excellent grades for naught. Even worse, I was being told over and over again that "Asian's not really a minority. Don't play the race card." Excuse me? I spent nearly my entire life in Chinatown, experienced prejudice (from both Chinese and Americans), and my family had endured years of working endlessly as citizens in a society that perceived them as "others." Suddenly, my opportunities seemed simultaneously limitless and limited.

When I chose to apply early decision for Hamilton, I thought I was making an independent choice based on who "I" was, on what "I" wanted. It took me one overnight to be swayed by the warm welcome (which I now know is just a show to attract students). But after being here, I realized that the choice I made reflected well upon my family's time here in the U.S. My acceptance to Hamilton signified that we were inching closer to the ideals of what constituted "upper-middle class," an all-American-esque positive immigrant story in itself.

My mother set high standards for me to meet or surpass.

In turn, I set another for my younger cousins and brother.

The choices I "make" take in account both past and present. They represent three generations of my family and their immigrant experience while also representing how my identity is entangled in theirs.

My choices are not entirely mine. I am an extension of their existence. I carry their dreams and successes, their failures and sacrifices, and it seems to me that choice is a privilege as much as it is a burden.